Devlin stopped the car and got out backwards. Then, reaching in the pocket flap of the coupé door, he drew out a searchlight and played it up and down the boggy-looking path for a flashing second, yet giving Skippy plenty of time to notice several large footprints on both sides of the trail.
He said nothing to Nickie for Devlin was back in the car again in a moment and they had started off. A few feet farther on they crossed a tiny wooden bridge of amateur construction.
“Frost and me fixed that up,” said the man as they rattled over the logs. He coughed again. “Part bog and part creek and about fifteen feet deep where we put the logs. Nasty place. Folks around here don’t know anything about it any more—their grandfolks and great-grandfolks that did have forgot about it now.”
They came at last to a road that had once boasted asphalt and Skippy guessed that it had taken them at least an hour to reach it. Along this they speeded silently, each one wrapped in his own thoughts. Not a car did they meet, not a person or house did they pass and it was fully two hours after they had left the dismal house when they espied a small, lighted dwelling by the roadside.
Devlin drove past that, too, and presently he turned on to another badly paved road which took them uphill. Skippy noticed the dark outline of mountains spreading out around them. It was true then, he thought, the house was situated in the center of swamplands and forest. But where—where were they?
Another half hour’s ride and they came into a small village, boasting a few stores and not more than twenty-five houses. It was at the extreme end of this quiet community and a little around the bend that Devlin brought the car to a stop.
“Here we are,” he said, backing out as soon as he had turned off his switch. “Now remember—leave the talking to me!”
Skippy felt the gun at his back all the way up the graveled walk. Nickie kept safely ahead and walked with short, jerky steps. They went up on the porch and a pleasant-faced lady answered the doorbell.
She led them into the sitting room at Devlin’s deep-voiced request, and then disappeared. Then the doctor appeared, a short, near-sighted little man who talked in nasal accents and put his stethoscope to Skippy’s rapidly beating heart with professional alacrity.
“So you got here, eh,” he said, as he changed the instrument about on the boy’s chest. “Mr. Smithson told me you’d come. Name’s Barker, eh? Well, must say you’re a sensible man to watch out what’s ahead. Guess both boys’ll pass muster. So you’re starting a mushroom place down at Devil’s Bog, eh?”